


Childhood Lessons

by RedCrimez89



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Again Not Graphic, Angst and Tragedy, Canonical Character Death, Child Abuse, Damian Wayne Angst, Damian Wayne is Robin, Gen, Hints of good mom Talia, It was only a matter of time guys, Killing, League of Assassins Damian Wayne, Swords, The League of Assassins (DCU), Young Damian Wayne, i got lazy at the last part give me a break, not graphic at all, only sorta kinda edited, rlly short scene I promise, you may have to squint a bit in some places
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:35:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27715519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedCrimez89/pseuds/RedCrimez89
Summary: Damian gets ideas. Ideas that linger at the back of his head, ideas that bug him into submission.Along the way, he learns a couple of lessons.And well, the hardest lessons are always learnt quickly.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Ra's al Ghul & Damian Wayne, Talia al Ghul & Damian Wayne
Comments: 2
Kudos: 37





	Childhood Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been on a writing ROLE recently so I’m very proud for finishing this. It was kind of just sitting in my drafts for awhile not gonna lie...
> 
> Anyway, I just had to return to my angsty genre because it’s been awhile since I’ve really hurt some of these good characters. And who better than to start with my personal favorite, Damian?
> 
> Quick warnings before we start.
> 
> Ra’s is a horrible person so as always, Damian does get hurt but it isn’t graphic in any way. Damian also kills an animal and I mention blood a lil bit. Again, nothing graphic and both scenes are very brief.
> 
> Other than that, enjoy!

_ and it was then you didn’t love me _

_ a sword across my heart _

_ you weren’t even sorry _

_ not even from the start _

* * *

Mama has never let Damian wield a real sword before. She claims he is not ready yet, claims he does not withhold the skill and grace and intelligence that is needed to bear a weapon of such power and elegance. Damian has never believed her of course, despite the knowledge and wisdom he knows she withholds. He is the heir to the Al Ghul throne, grandson of Ra’s Al Ghul and destined to rule the world along his grandfather’s side. How could someone of such importance like him not be ready to fight with a prideful weapon in battle?

One day, Damian gets ideas. 

Thoughts that linger in the back of his head, thoughts that hinder his nights of dreamless sleep.

He shouldn’t do it.

Knows he shouldn’t do it because resistance and disobedience always lead to consequences. But Damian is young and he is the heir, the future Alexander.

He goes anyway.

The weapons room is full of many respectable tools. There are katanas and shurikens and daggers and a vast selection of weaponry to his disposal. Damian examines the swords that hang along a wall, fascinated in the size and how some blades curve backwards while others are ramrod straight. He observes the hilts and the length and the size until he eventually settles for the traditional and most preferred katana. Damian manages to get the sword down from its perch and when he is able to grip his hands around the firm hilt, he does not bother to hold back the satisfied himself expression that grows on his face. Damian takes a few swings at the air, careful to keep his balance with the extra weight a non-wooden sword brings.

It’s all fun in games until he’s suddenly on the ground and the next thing he knows, he’s being dragged back by his collar and the sword clanks to the ground beside him, forgotten. Damian yelps, kicking and struggling and fuming. How dare this person attack him? Don’t they know - 

“ I suggest you refrain from struggle unless you wish for a greater kind of pain, boy.”

Damian stills from that voice, dread filling his stomach.  _ Grandfather. _

He’s dragged from the weapons room down hallways he’s never been down before, hallways he never knew existed. He’s thrown into a dark room, tossed away like a rag doll from an overused doll collection. The room smells of copper and iron (of blood) and Damian feels as though he may drown in the sicking heat that comes with it.

The darkness enshrouds him, so blank it doesn’t matter if he prefers to open or close his eyes. There are footsteps that approach him, though Damian can’t tell which way they come from due to the loud reoccurring echos of each step they take . “ G-Get away from me.” He stands shakily, eyes darting this way and that, hoping to see something. He’s never felt so blind before, never felt so helpless.

Damian wants Mama back. ( Mama came with soft kisses, and whispered lullabies. She came with vanilla perfume and lavender shampoo, with sweet words and firm embraces.)

Steel slices through his skin, eliciting a cry from the sudden pain. There are more strikes delivered, more punishments to be served out.

And at the ripe age of four, Damian learns pain.

* * *

The weight of the sword grew heavy in his sweaty palms. The unrelenting heat of the sun beats down on Damian’s back from his position in the courtyard, sweat beading down his forehead and causing his shirt to stick to his back. It‘s an effortless task. One he knew he’d preform for all to see one day. It was simple; eliminate the useless and weak and replace them with more sufficient, useful persons. It took one strike.  _One strike._ One smooth motion and the animal would be beheaded and they would feast on the remaining corpse of the dead rabbit. One motion and the pitiful rabbit that had brought shame to its brethren by being the weak link would be brought to justice.

It was simple. 

It was easy.

It wasn’t new. 

And yet, the weight of the weapon seemed to be heavier this time, seemed to weigh a different kind of weight on his shoulders and chest than he’d ever felt before.

He could feel the stares of anticipation from the surrounding people, could feel them at the edges of their seats as they waited for him to strike. They wanted to hear the telling screech of the animal, wanted to see slick red coating his blade. And so they stare at Damian like he is their own prey, eyes boring through him and his very soul, knowing this is what he’d destined for. He is meant to do this. He  _needs_ to do this.

But as per usual Damian gets ideas. Ideas that stick at the back of his head, whispering in his ear until he can do nothing but think. Ideas that haven’t been a problem until now.

What if this is wrong? What if this isn’t the ...correct... way to do things? Will his only purpose be to slaughter and return to his masters side like some kind of mutt? And what if Damian does not want to murder this seemingly innocent rabbit.

But Damian is not for himself, his brain reminds. He is for things of hurt, and pain, and sufferance. He was created not by will or want but by a strong desire to rule and command, to tame and control. His purpose has been established since the day of his very birth, streaming through his veins and thrumming through his bones. And Damian was not made for freedom, or choice, or want. He was made for much more important circumstances.

Lazarus green eyes narrow from afar, a warning and a sign.  Kill now or suffer later.  Damian gulps down the dread piling in his stomach, blinks away the sweat from his eyes and wills his hands to loosen his grip around the sword. His knuckles are white, fingers aching and trembling. With one more deep breath, Damian takes a swing at the creatures head, closing his eyes when blood splatters out onto the grainy sand beneath his feet. Cheers surround him, congratulating the heir of The Demon on his first ever kill. Damian feels sick to the stomach.

When dinner comes around Damian doesn’t touch the rabbit meat, doesn’t even look at it. He feels guilty.

If Grandfather notices, he doesn’t make it obvious.

And that night at six years of age, Damian stares at the ceiling in his bedroom, throat tight and stomach twisted in a knot, wondering if this homicide lead life was all he was ever meant to know.

And at age six, Damian learns murder.

* * *

Things were different at age ten.

Somewhere along the line he had diverged from the long, gravely path in desert sun that was the life of an assassin. And on that journey he managed to cross an even more bumpy, hazardous road of freedom in the city of moldy garbage, cigarette ash, and crime. It was a sudden switch. A big one too. Life had reverted to freedom, and choices, and love; all of which Damian had never owned. ( Except love. Mother had loved him, still loves him. Damian knows he does too.)

But there was loss as well.

There were no torrid deserts with scorching mornings and cool evenings. There were no Arabic lullabies sung in the dead of night by the soothing voice of his mother, no food that was not too greasy or sweet or salty.

But there was more than just the loss of simple comforts.

Damian was always lost here.

He was always second guessing himself, tripping up and reacting in the only way he knew how to; anger. Anger was common. It was the fuel to his fireplace just like calm was in some sort of way the quiet tides of the ocean, washing down everything he’d felt until he could simply breathe and be nobody for one, unforgettable moment.

( Sometimes being nobody was better than being somebody because without a name, he had no rules or expectations to live up to except his own.)

In Gotham Damian was new.

He was locked away in a strange, too big house and suddenly he had everything he had ever wanted except... he didn’t.

Sure, Damian got to meet his Father but he didn’t  know him. He didn’t even know the man’s date of birth, didn’t know much beyond the fact he was Batman, Bruce Wayne, and a collector of orphans. 

Damian didn’t have his trust, didn’t have his love, didn’t have anything. He somehow had less than what he had owned before coming here, away from The League and their murderous ways.

He might as well have been set in the middle of a football game and told to participate without knowing the rules. At this point, it would have been much more pleasant than the repetitive absence of his Father and the drilling silence that came in his ancient house.

But things got better.

And Damian learned new things, things he couldn’t have dreamt of once upon a time in a place far, far away. (But learning came with a price and sometimes that price was the greatest of all.)

Damian learned to love. More than what Mother had taught him. Damian had loved her with all his heart but this was a different kind of love. This new kind of love was more than one night visits and random intervals of freshly made desserts and drinks. This was unconditional love. This was the kind of love that locked beyond simple and nightly gestures, a kind that extended between you and a person no matter how far away they traveled. But with this type of love comes sacrifice. With any loves comes sacrifice really.

And so at age ten, when The Heretic, a clone of himself, came to rain hell on Gotham  _and_ his family, well. Damian willingly learned death better than he could’ve ever understood murder.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea when chapter two is gonna come but I can definitely promise it’ll be much more fluffy and heartwarming than this one.
> 
> And as always, comments and constructive criticism are highly encouraged :)
> 
> Have a good day!!


End file.
